


Animalia

by Analphancones



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, M/M, Offensive Humor, Stalking, a little dark ig but when is my stuff not, also im not funny so pls dont at me, comedian!phil, ill add tags as this goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-26 01:46:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18174224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Analphancones/pseuds/Analphancones
Summary: Phil Lester is a comedian finally getting the take off he deserves.Dan is his stalker who has an issue with pathological lying.





	1. Chapter 1

Phil’s P.O.V 

“You know I used to work in a nursing home.” 

Applause. I can’t help but smile. 

“And those years I worked there I realized something- I hate old people. I hate em.” I laughed at my own set up along with the audience of hundreds in front of me. Sold out tickets. 

“Because they get away with so much. So much shit! I saw an old woman’s granddaughter come in on her birthday, bring her flowers and her mother stood behind her right? And this woman smiles real big, like she’s about to say something real kind to her loving granddaughter. Instead she says “For being half gook you sure are sweet.” 

The applause and laughter roar. 

“I think my favorite thing about that is what it implies. Are all asian people she’s met just such dicks she feels it’s right saying that to her own grandkid?” I laughed. They laughed. 

I never felt as good as I did on stage. 

“This beautiful, young girl starts sobbing and her mother just says “She’s from a different time, babygirl. She still loves you.” And all I can think is man- I’m a comedian! I say gook and I get twitter backlash for a month. I wanna be old so I can be racist dammit!” 

Everything I’m saying is off instinct, two years of rehearsal putting this show together. So worth it. 

“They weren’t all bad though- personality wise. I actually thing my biggest discrepancy was never knowing if the residents were dead or asleep.

Mr. Jenkins. Mr. Jenkins! 

Yo is he dead? Is he-

Ahhhhh!! 

And just like frankenstein this man would rise from his bed, bedpan full and for the sixth time today assure us he was alive with a series of grunting and moaning. It happened daily!” 

The laughter feeds everything I’ve sacrificed to be here into the flames of forgotten lore. This is all I’ve ever wanted. My whole world is here. On stage. 

“Another thing I really liked was some of our nursing staff right, they came from maternity wards in hospital. They came in starry eyed and bright thinking there really wasn’t much difference in old people and babies. Diapers, whining, really just taking care of something just the same.

I will tell you right now by the time those people quit and we all quit eventually, the stars in their eyes had DIED. Not even due to natural causes no they had been murdered!” I laugh with them again. 

“These people did not prepare for the things these ancient bastards had to say. Babies don’t talk but the principle is the same- you’re taking care of something. Except when babies are about to die and you say “It’s cold, turn on the heat I want the death as peaceful and comfortable as possible” babies don’t chime in with a “BITCH BITCH BITCH, ALL YOU DO IS BITCH.” And then die! Only old bitter bastards and as much as I hated that job I knew nothing would ever make me laugh as hard as that being a man's last words. True story.” 

My set continued. The night was on. The world was mine it felt like. 

All eyes were on me. Some I could see, some I couldn’t. Such as in the very back, behind the wall of the hallway leading into the restrooms, two brown eyes stared at me like prey. Had been for months. And months. And months more to come.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil’s P.O.V 

Writers all don’t want to admit it, but we can collectively agree, we know we look like douchebags when we write in public. Some of us are just egotistical enough not to care. Such as myself. 

So when you see me sat in a Starbucks writing I know I look like an asshole to most. Some cuties think it’s soooo sexy, so romantic and cool. Others are indifferent. My favorite type of people, however, are the cute boys and girls who see me in public, sometimes know of me work, even better when they don’t, and they write their number on my receipt. 

Employees commonly did this or rando’s write it on a napkin. Half the time I don’t even shoot them a text. I just like the ego boost. Yes, perhaps, I am an asshole. I am aware. 

Then sometimes you see someone jot down their number, giggle and flash some dimples- and you know you’re gonna text them, call them, or god damn at least try and hit that. 

So when I saw :Dan Howell followed by a number on the back of my receipt, and I saw who wrote it, yeah. I called a few days later from my hotel. 

Some things even the strongest men can’t resist.


	3. Or So I Told Myself

Phil’s P.O.V

Another show. Another bit. 

“Why did I become a writer?” 

No one asked. Everyone laughed. 

“Great question- well short answer is I was pissed off.” 

More laughter. 

“Because I was watching all of these shows where people got to be famous, or get super powers, or be half demon or vampire or all this cool shit and you know what I got to be? Diagnosed with depression and antisocial personality disorder.

Yeah I know!” I roared as the crowd laughed at what plagued me since I first noticed the symptoms. I loved it. They had no idea. 

“So I was so, so pissed off. I thought I needed to get God’s lawyers number or something because I felt ripped off, I felt like I had to sue! 

Now I’m-I’m not sacreligious. I’m jealous! I wanna be able to lift a car with one hand or control elements- I can’t even control my own emotions because my brain, the thing I was born with, decided dopamine? Hell no.” 

They’re snickering, they’re grinning. I’m the center of attention. 

“Being a comedian you kind of have to be a bitter asshole because all we’re really good at is making other bitter depressed assholes laugh! It’s sad! But we’re all here laughing at it because we can’t do anything else or else our empathy would bum us the fuck out! 

I mean the world is bizarre! Why must we be sad over every tragedy? As many theories are out there on mermaids, ghosts, multiverses, whatever- you gotta think maybe one of them is true. Maybe the world is so much bigger than we think. 

So please, laugh with me. I am a depressed asshole making other depressed assholes a little happier.” 

They’re all filled with glee. I could practically see it in their auras. 

And when the set ends and I’m heading home I am discreet. While I am a monster for attention and for the fame, I like to maintain a humble facade. My whole career was deceit and laughter. I built something good out of a debilitating illness. 

Or so I told myself. 

When I am back safely and quietly in my hotel- I text the boy from just a few days ago. 

417-555-8164: Whose this? 

I smirk at the phone. “Phil, from your work? You wrote my number on my receipt.” 

417-555-8164: I’m so glad you texted me. What’re you up too? 

He didn’t seem to know who I was. Just someone brave, maybe a little naive. I liked him enough. “I’m at the Under Station Hotel in room 202. Come by and see me maybe and we can do something together?” 

417-555-8164: Tonight. 

“Tonight.” 

417-555-8164: Ok I’ll be there soon.


	4. 6-11-02

Phil’s P.O.V

I wake up with him gone- I wonder if he was like me in that way. As if he read my mind and knew I’d prefer to wake up alone. I liked him more now. I have sort of a rule. If I wake up with you in my bed we don’t meet again. But he wasn’t a bad lay and safe to say he knew what I wanted when i texted him in the middle of the night for a meeting. He was cool about this. Too bad my show tour would take me across states in the next week. 

Pity. 

As I got dressed and went to get some coffee, things felt normal. As much so as any other day. I loved my morning coffee. I loved my morning routine. I loved being somewhere new sometimes multiple times in a month. I loved when people knew me and when people didn’t know me just as much as the other. It gave me a chance either way to be anyone but myself. At least in the eyes of others. 

I picked the right career. I fought for this career. All for this reason. 

The walk back to my hotel was spent thinking about just turning on the tv and relaxing all day. No shows. No attention. Just solid isolation. I loved that just as much as I loved the attention. The things my brain did always eluded me but I knew how to work around them. I knew I needed to work around them. 

The door to my hotel was left cracked. Accidents happen I guess. I put my key card away and walked in, shutting the door with my feet and setting ym drink down to take off my jacket. My eyes flickered past something on the table glaring white but I ignored it for a second- until i saw what it was with a second glance. 

“No.” I said audibly, out loud though no one was there to be seen. “No. No no no no-” I picked it up. “Fuck. Fuck oh my fucking-” I couldn’t stop screaming every obscenity that came to my mind. What it was? A drivers license. 

Dan Howell.

Birthday 6-11-02

He must have left it here last night on accident. Why he would carry it on his person rather than a wallet I don’t know. But I knew one thing- if anyone saw him leave I was in some deep shit the minute they found out who he was. How old he was. 

“Fuck!” I threw it. 

I prayed this wouldn't get out.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm mostly writing this bc I wanna get better at comedy


End file.
